


Gothamites

by dumbbfuckk



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, this is just a mix of a lot of stuff ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 17:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbbfuckk/pseuds/dumbbfuckk
Summary: A series of one shots documenting the various experiences the citizens of Gotham have had with the Batfamily and/or Wayne family.





	1. Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> rated Mature for cursing, some violence/threats, and a comment implying rape/sexual assault.
> 
> each chapter is its own stand alone story and occurs at different points in time. i.e. chapter 2 features Nightwing Dick Grayson while chapter 3 features pre-Robin Dick Grayson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets kidnapped. It's a regular thing in this city.

It had been only _15 seconds_.

She had just needed a break (a tiny, miniscule, _insignificant_ break) from organizing and going over the medical forms and patient labs she had brought home from work. It was routine. It was normal.

For fuck’s sake.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

* * *

 

After that night, she became a singer for an underground nightclub run by the current head of the Falcone family and frequented by the well-known (and lesser known) villains of Gotham.

She was an _involuntary_ singer, she would like to add. But, unfortunately, that would only add to the stage persona Carmine Falcone had chosen for her. “ _The Caged Canary!_ ” is what an MC would call out enticingly before she was forced onto the elevated platform; but the shackles that bound her wrists together with a short chain were anything but a stage prop.

If she wanted to live, she would have to sing.

 

* * *

 

She had begun to lose track of how long she had been there. Two weeks? Or was it three? She figured her loss of time had more to do with the drugs her food was laced with rather than an actual disinterest in what was happening to her.

But no matter how long it had been, she couldn’t forget what got her here.

_That damn song._

Someone had been singing it at the hospital that day and it spread like a disease. Everyone, nurses, doctors, patients were humming it as they flipped through channels in the waiting rooms or murmuring the words under their breath as they looked at charts. _Of course_ , it would get stuck in her head and follow her home like some lonely animal in need of food and shelter.

Of course, it would happen like this.

She had stepped out onto her fire escape to clear her mind for a bit because the numbers and words on the forms had begun to blur and spin. Her shifts were too long and they left her too tired to focus, but she always managed to get through the small pile she brought back with her.

She breathed in the Gotham air, the smell that came in from the docks, the chill that wafted through her bones. Before she realized it, the tune had tumbled from her lips as if it had been lying in wait for the perfectly _wrong_ time to make its debut.

It was only for a moment or two. But it was enough.

Someone heard her.

 

* * *

 

The next time she came back to her apartment, she could only remember putting her key into the lock, turning the knob, pressing her weight against the door—it was always sticking—and then nothing.

She woke up with a headache and those damned shackles already clasping her wrists.

 

* * *

 

She slept a lot. Again, it probably had more to do with the drugs than her being tired. But she couldn’t not eat the food given to her. Falcone made sure of it. One of his men watched her eat. The man was quite talkative and, upon their first meeting, had mentioned that Falcone didn’t want to “take any unnecessary risks with the star of his club.”

It was unnerving, but his constant chatter helped her relax a bit.

A bit too much.

Despite being only given a single meal, she had tried to sneak some of her food away to reduce the effect the narcotics were having on her. She was thinking she could stay awake at night to mark the change in shifts for the guards.

This was back when she had only been captive for a few days and still hoped she could somehow find a way out.

She really didn’t think he noticed; he had kept chattering on about this or that football game and how Two-Face had made an appearance at the club for the first time in weeks.

She signaled that she was done and his expression went blank before he sweetly stated, “No. You’re not.”

He stood up and grabbed the napkin from her, clucking his tongue as he unwrapped it to reveal the leftover food, “Now, don’t tell me you think I’m this stupid, little birdie.”

Even with his easy smile, fear began to seize her. Shitshitshit. She shouldn’t have done that.

“I’ll give you one last chance. Finish your food,” and then, bracing his arms against the table, he looked her directly in her eyes and finished, in a still sweet voice, “before I force it down your throat.”

 

* * *

 

The room she was in was fairly bare, but she figured she shouldn’t complain. As far as prisons go, this was, perhaps, luxurious. It doubled as a dressing room, with a vanity running along half the wall opposite her bed.

There was even someone who came to do her makeup and hair for her performances.

…

Maybe the drugs were making her complacent as well.

 

* * *

 

Who would save her? Batman and his small army? She was, after all, only one civilian surrounded by a hundred villains.

If she were the man in the mask, she wouldn’t choose to save her either.

 

* * *

 

She liked to sing songs by Etta James. Yeah, it fit the mood of the club, but she loved it because she could pour every ounce of emotion into those vocals.

It was probably why “ _I’d Rather Go Blind”_ was so frequently requested.

 

* * *

 

She had noticed the uptick in patrons since her first performance. She ignored it and she ignored them.

The more people crowded into that space meant more fistfights, which meant more distractions for her, which meant a poorer performance, which meant less to eat later on.

She knew the drill.

 

* * *

 

That night.

So many people.

Too many people.

She sang as usual.

Ignored the hungry looks directed at her.

Strained at the cuffs on her wrists.

Ignored the fight breaking out right _there_.

And right there.

And over there.

Tried to sing over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Tried not to flinch at the sound of a gunshot.

But then another came.

And then another.

And another.

And then the music stopped.

The sax player was dead.

When she turned to look at him, someone grabbed her.

A napkin over her mouth.

Then nothing.

 

* * *

 

She realized she was more upset at the fact that she was taken before she could eat her dinner than she was at being taken at all.

Maybe the drugs had an addictive quality as well? Whatever. She was hungry. And the duct tape covering her mouth was itchy.

She wanted to sigh and roll her eyes at the whole situation, but then she realized. She was one civilian surrounded by only six…seven…twelve men. Just regular thugs in a regular warehouse. Maybe she wasn’t so screwed.

Damn. Gotham really messed with one’s sense of danger.

They were arguing over when to set up a livestream. It sounded like they were auctioning her off… tomorrow night. At the same time as her scheduled performance. “For ample effect,” the supposed leader stated, obviously proud of himself for his choice of vocabulary, and she _really_ couldn’t help rolling her eyes at that.

One guy came over and crouched over where she was tied up against a pillar. Too closely to her face, he breathed, “You’re pretty popular, you know that? From what the boys back at the club been saying about you, bet you’re gonna go for a couple hundred grand, at least.”

He laughed and looked at her, still too close for comfort, for a few moments before calling over another man and being told, apparently for the _millionth fucking time, Scotty_ , that no, he could not “test drive the merchandise.”

Eventually, another man came over and pressed a very familiar napkin to her nose.

 

* * *

 

She woke up and was acutely aware of the skin under her eyes. They were slightly puffy and the burning of her eyes was not helping her headache. It was like she had just finished a 30-hour shift at the hospital.

Whatever they gave her was strong. Too fucking strong and it irritated her that they didn’t think about the correct dosage.

 _Idiots_.

She was still wearing the evening gown from her performance the night before and the cloth swayed around her legs as she realized that she was suspended at least two feet off the ground by her arms. She dipped her head back and squinted through the throbbing of her head. She was still wearing the cuffs from Falcone’s but they were locked in the middle to another chain that went up into the ceiling.

Fuck.

In front of her, the men were setting up the livestream and adjusting the lights. The man she had figured was the leader had a laptop and looked far too delighted with himself.

“ _Holy shit, what did I say? Am I fucking genius or what?_ ”

The haze in her head lifted a little more as she noticed the men weren’t setting up the livestream and lights—they were taking it down.

Fuck.

She had missed it.

She didn’t know where she was going to go or how far or who would now _own_ her. She didn’t know what was going to happen. Then fear melted into fury and she didn’t want to be a fucking _thing_ to be passed around. A little bird in its cage.

She strained against the chains as tears began to well in her eyes and curses were muffled by the tape on her mouth. Pain was shooting up and down her arms but she didn’t care. Pain helped. It cleared her mind.

Everyone was looking at her and the man with the laptop was saying something to her when she noticed two figures duck into the warehouse. A cowl and a flash of red.

 _Finally_.

The man with the napkin— _the stupid man with the overly drugged up piece of cloth_ —came closer and as soon as he was within reach, the Caged Canary shot out her leg and kicked the man square in the face. Partially because she needed to distract the thugs for a little longer while the Bats did their thing, but mostly because she was _fed up and exhausted and pissed_.

“Fuck you!” she screamed but the duct tape muffled the words into an unintelligible jumble. But the sentiment was understood, regardless.

By then, smoke started filling up the warehouse and all she could hear were grunts and gunshots as blurs moved bodily through the haze.

_Fucking finally._

 

* * *

 

A bullet ended up in her thigh.

 _Of course_.

Red Robin broke the lock from the chains with his own batarang—a Robin-arang, if you will (shut up, she hadn’t eaten in over 48 hours and was on some type of narcotic for at least two and a half weeks)—and Red Hood caught her around the waist before her injured leg could connect with the floor. And when her feet did find the floor, she noted with disdain, she was barefoot.

_Seriously?_

Hood was still holding her up to keep her weight off her leg and she reached up to rip off the duct tape.

“Ow.” It came out as a whisper and, suddenly, she felt every moment that had led her here settling and pressing down on her shoulders, sinking into her bones, and she just wanted to sleep.

Hood carefully lifted one of her arms and brought it over his shoulders and, with a pulse of annoyance, she saw her other arm pulled along with it.

 _Those damn shackles_.

She almost asked them to take them off her, but then she realized they would have to cut through each of the thick cuffs with a batarang and who knew how long they would have to keep standing around in the warehouse because of her request.

As the Red Hood bent to gather up her legs to carry her out of the warehouse, Red Robin spoke up, “The police are going to want to question her, Hood.”

“Well, they can wait. You saw how many people tuned into that livestream. Not even Gotham’s Finest can stop the freaks when they think they’re owed something.”

“Soooo safehouse?”

“Yep.”

 

* * *

 

“You got lucky, the bullet went clean through.”

It took a moment for her to realize that Red Hood was talking to her and, when she did, she simply _mm_ ’d in response.

She slowly opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her putting away bandages and scissors in a medical kit (it resembled the one she had at home, just larger and more… extensive).

Wait. Home.

“They know where I live,” she said quickly, panicked.

He shrugged, “Yeah, you’re gonna have to move.” He stood up with a grunt and started toward the bedroom’s closet with the kit in tow. “Ah, sorry ’bout your dress by the way, but I figured you didn’t care much for it.”

She glanced down to see the side of her long, blue dress cut in a straight line, almost to her hip, with blood staining the sequins.

Her blood.

That’s when she thought, with a start, that she could have died tonight. If the thugs hadn’t strung her up, the bullet would have been firmly lodged in her chest.

Red Hood came back from the closet and handed her a t-shirt and sweats. She muttered her thanks and he added, “Tomorrow, we’ll go back to your apartment and move you out. We’ll clear out the registry too so they can’t track you to your new place.”

He started to leave and then paused, “I, uh, I wanted to come rescue you earlier bu—”

“No, I…I get it,” she cut him off, “You had to wait for the right opportunity. Trust me, I get it. Thank you, by the way.”

The Red Hood just nodded and headed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

 

* * *

 

Life just picked itself right back up. Gothamites had a thing for bouncing back, she supposed. She halfheartedly considered moving, what with all the crime and now with all the local villains being able to recognize her on the street, but it just didn’t seem worth it.

This was her city, after all. And this city had its own band of heroes.

She told the Bats before they vanished back into… wherever they vanished into, that her place was always available to them, should they need medical assistance or a place to hide or, really, anything at all.

They thanked her and went on their way and she had the distinct feeling that her offer would not be taken up on.

She didn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand yeah. that was fun. i'm not that comfortable with original characters so the "Caged Canary" doesn't actually have a name, but that won't be the case for later chapters because it will depend on the setting, content, etc.
> 
> and speaking of subject matter, pLEASE SEND ME REQUESTS OR PROMPTS OR ANYTHING AT ALL i'd be happy to write them since this series doesn't follow a coherent storyline and is more of a writing exercise for me.
> 
> my [tumblr](http://dumbbfuckk.tumblr.com/)


	2. A Lovers' Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Tim end up spending some time with two nice old ladies on a rooftop in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [prompt in the comments section](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11674182/chapters/26272761#chapter_1_endnotes) from [Lanelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanelle/)
> 
> i know i said i already had another chapter planned out but i hit a wall with it and ended up writing this one instead. its shorter than the first chapter but i hope yall enjoy itttt

Red Robin spread his arms out as he lay on a rooftop somewhere in a relatively quiet neighborhood.

 _Relatively_ quiet. After all, this was Gotham, and sirens and shouts could still be heard. A dog barked a few streets away. Drunken laughter echoed a block over.

“It’s a nice night,” he breathed, bumping his knee against Nightwing’s. “A slow night,” he added.

Nightwing hummed in agreement before turning his head from the city lights to give his little brother a small smile. “Those two things are connected, you know.”

“What do you mean? That it’s nice because it’s a slow night?” Red Robin tucked his chin in to the side to try and see Nightwing where he was perched on the rooftop. He watched him lean back and set his empty coffee cup next to Red’s discarded one with a hollow _clunk_.

“That it’s slow because it’s a nice night,” Nightwing clarified, “When you can see the stars in Gotham and breathe the air without choking on the pollution… that’s rare. We need nights like this to be reminded that we’re not the ugly cousin of Metropolis. Even the villains have enough local pride not to ruin it. Ergo, a nice night in Gotham means a slow night with no crime.” His smile had become a full-blown grin, “A win-win.”

“Huh.” Red turned his head back to the stars as the two relapsed back into comfortable silence.

A door opening and a burst of giggles pulled them from their thoughts. “Oh! Looks like we have company, Harry.”

Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the first time the Bats crashed a lovers’ rendezvous and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Red Robin looked up to see two elderly women holding bottles of wine and looking far too happy to have had their time together interrupted by some vigilantes.

“I’m sorry, please excuse us,” Nightwing began as he started to stand and reach for his grapple gun.

“Oh, nonsense! Would you boys care to join us? We’re celebrating our anniversary, you know, and we must insist,” one of the women smiled at them but her voice conveyed that she would not take any other answer except _why, yes, ma’am, we would be delighted to join you!_

“Er…Well, if you insist,” Nightwing conceded sheepishly as Red Robin sat up and scooted over to make room for the two women. It was always a little fun interacting with civilians when they were on patrol. Or, when they were supposed to be on patrol.

One woman shuffled forward. It wasn’t easy to tell, but Tim prided himself on details and almost immediately noticed she had a bad knee. He stood up and offered her his arm without a second thought.

“My, my, now aren’t you just the gentleman,” she cooed, gratefully wrapping her hand around his bicep, “And mighty strong, too.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before stage-whispering, “I always did have a thing for lean men.” Red Robin sputtered and try to hide his embarrassment with a cough as the woman broke into laughter.

Dick bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from laughing at Tim’s discomfort. He had moved to help the one holding the wine bottles sit down when she had said to him, “Don’t worry, Ellie’s only teasing… She’s not the one with the thing for men.” With that, she winked at Nightwing and left him unable to contain his laughter.

“Oh, shoot, Harry, hold on. Let me go get some more glasses,” Ellie started steering Red Robin back to the door but Nightwing called out that the two had their coffee cups to use, so it was all right, really.

After everyone was settled, Red seated himself back into his spot. He asked how long the two had been together and, in unison, they responded fondly, “53 years.”

“I can still remember the first moment I laid eyes on my Eleanor.”

“I can still remember how Harriet here _so romantically_ asked me out,” the sarcasm and roll of the eyes catching both boys off guard.

Harriet threw back her head and laughed, “Oh, _please_ , don’t tell that story!” and Eleanor, with a devilish smile on her face, leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Harry and I were the only two girls in our Economics class in college and so we instantly became friends. Every Thursday, after class, we would go down to the library and do our homework for the week. On the last day of term, she asks if we were going to go down to the library and I say, ‘It’s the last day; we don’t have any homework to do.’ And her response?” Eleanor paused to look at a giggling Harriet, “‘Well, if we don’t have to do homework, can I do you instead?’” Nightwing and Red Robin mouths dropped open in shock as laughter began to spill out.

“Oh, but here’s the catch,” Harriet interjected. “I was always this blushing, stuttering buffoon around her and she was always so composed, no matter what. So I figured, if this is the last time I see her, I want to see the roles reversed. I had spent the _whole week_ working up the nerve to say it to her with a straight face. Finally, I pushed back my shoulders and managed to ask her out in such a cheeky way without fainting. But _then_ ,” Harriet, apparently, was also fond of dramatic pauses, “she says, without batting an eye, ‘My place then? Unless you want to give the librarians quite a show.’ I swear, I damn near died on the spot.”

Eleanor smirked as she poured herself a glass of wine.

As the cups were filled and refilled, more and more stories were told. At first, Dick and Tim had immediately turned on their respective Wayne-kid-at-a-gala charm and asked follow-up questions, but as the night went on, they began genuinely enjoying themselves and found their inquiries came from actual interest, rather than simple politeness.

“But I don’t understand,” Red Robin was saying, “It was only one bad student survey, and obviously the student was biased, so why would they go to such an extreme as to fire you?”

“Those Ivy League schools love to boast about being the crème de la crème, so they occasionally will take a chance on someone like me—someone who is a black bisexual woman with an accent—just so they can point to their record and say they are _oh, so inclusive and diverse, look who we tolerated on our staff for three years, but let’s not dwell on the fact that her termination was baseless and we’re all just xenophobic, homophobic, women-hating, racist fucks_ ,” Harriet sighed as Eleanor patted her on her shoulder. A sly smile made it way onto Harriet’s face, “It’s all in the past, though, love. I got my revenge.”

“What did you do?” Nightwing had finished his third glass (small coffee cup, actually) of wine and was entirely too invested in the life stories of these women, but he really could not care less. Telling stories, passing down your history by word of mouth had always fascinated him. It was like people showing you the treasures they had picked up through life. _Here, hold this. Isn’t it beautiful? This is precious to me and I want you to have a piece of it to keep. Go on, it’s yours._

Harriet smiled. “I did the only thing I could do. I got better. I got so good at what I did that they were begging me to come back. And then I said I’d consider doing one lecture if they could find a valid reason as to why I was fired in the first place,” she shrugged, “I never worked for those bastards again.”

Tim whistled lowly, “Damn.”

Suddenly, Eleanor gasped, “Oh, I completely forgot! I made some apple pie earlier today, would you boys like some?” Before either of them could answer, Eleanor was already on her feet and making her shuffling way back to the rooftop exit.

Nightwing tried to say something about how late it was, but the older woman ignored him and continued on without so much as a backwards glance. “There’s no stopping Ellie. Trust me,” Harriet got up and beckoned the boys to follow.

They made their way down a few floors, crossed a corridor, and entered a small apartment at the end of the hall. It was dark and, after Eleanor tried to flip a light switch a few times, it remained dark.

“The light’s gone out again, Harry,” Eleanor sounded defeated. Tim could hear her shuffling footsteps travel further into the apartment and the kitchen light came on with a small _tink_.

“I’ll get to it in the morning.”

“You’ll have to ask for the stepladder back from Paul, love.”

“He hasn’t given it back yet? Damn him, he’s more forgetful than us and he’s only 60.”

“63, darling.”

The apartment wasn’t that dark, Tim thought. The night was clear and the moon was full, peeking through the window and filling the room with a small pool of grayish light. And the night vision in their domino masks was helping a bit too.

Nightwing cleared his throat next to him, “Do you have a spare lightbulb? I can change it for you now?”

“Oh, you don’t have to go through the trouble, dear,” Eleanor responded.

Before Nightwing could finish saying that he insists, Harriet was pressing a small box in his hands, “Here you go, kiddo.” She gave his fingers a small squeeze and smiled up at him for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much taller he was than her and it came as a slight shock to have to look down at a woman he was eye level with for more than an hour.

Nightwing smiled back. He could reach the light easily and replaced it within a few seconds. Red Robin flicked on the switch from where he was standing against the wall.

“Here you are,” Eleanor handed Nightwing a small plate with a generous slice of pie on it. “Thank you for that, and thank you both for being such great company this evening.”

“Yes, please stop by whenever you want, boys. Our grandkids are so busy with school and life and I’m sure you two are as well, but you are always welcome here,” Harriet finished. “Plus, having two good looking boys stopping by will make all the neighborhood women jealous, won’t it, El?”

Eleanor chuckled as she handed Red Robin a slice of pie. He tried to refuse at first, but Eleanor gave him a stern look and he took the plate with a quiet thanks.

The two women talked about this and that for a bit and made sure the boys each had a second helping of pie, when a light tapping came from the window. Tim was the closest to it and could see Robin hanging upside down and glaring haughtily at him.

“Oh, let him in! The more, the merrier!”

Red Robin protested, “He’s a demonic child, you don’t want him ruining your anniversary, do you?”

Nightwing shook his head slightly and went to open the window for the littlest Robin.

“Tt,” Robin scoffed, lowering himself onto the window sill and crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you think you two are doing?”

“Socializing,” Red Robin shrugged.

“Celebrating!” Nightwing smiled.

“Would you like some pie, dear?” Eleanor called from the kitchen.

“Who is this?” Robin questioned. Nightwing shot him a _look_ and Damian suddenly remembered the lectures Grayson had given him about manners. “Um. No. Thank you, ma’am,” he said robotically, “I’ve come to collect these two. If you’ll excuse us.” He turned back to the window.

“Oh, I suppose it is late,” Eleanor pouted. She had a plastic container in her hands and moved toward Robin. He turned to look at her and she pressed the container in his hands, “Here you are. Some sweets for the road.”

Robin looked down at the container to see it filled to the top with cookies. “…Thank you,” he said quietly and tried to hide his surprise.

Harriet turned toward Red Robin. “Thank you for spending some time with us crazy old ladies,” Harriet shook his hand, “Be safe on your way home.”

“We will. Happy anniversary,” Red Robin said warmly and Nightwing echoed the sentiment.

With that, the trio lept out the window and disappeared into the night. Harriet peaked out the window to try and glimpse their retreating figures.

“What a nice group of boys,” Eleanor said, coming up to stand beside her wife.

Harriet hummed, agreeing, before turning and kissing Eleanor on the cheek.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i reread the prompt and i didn’t do such a good job of following it… i couldn’t think of why Dick and Tim would be changing on a roof instead of in the batcave or in one of their safehouses or apartments so this is what ended up happening with that. and the old ladies drinking tea turned into wine and it just all snowballed from there im sorry i tried


	3. Local Rich Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone who owes their life to Bruce Wayne, not Batman, and wants that fact to be known.

“Dude!” Jesse shouted across the courtyard as soon as he caught sight of his friend’s battered, brown satchel.

Will looked up and smiled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Jesse jogged over and threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe it!” He shouted, giving Will a bit of a noogie. Will just laughed and let Jesse be happy for him.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s cool,” Will said, avoiding eye contact.

“Cool? It’s amazing! I cut out the article and taped it to my fridge. _Taped_. And then I called ma and she did the same,” Jesse was always the dramatic one, but Will never minded his over-the-top gestures. It was probably why there were such good friends.

“How’d it happen? You told me you had to write a paper on ‘local pride’ for English but I didn’t think I would be seeing it featured in the _Gotham Gazette_.”

Jesse steered Will toward the vending machines, stooping to see the number on the bag of chips he always got. He seriously should have it memorized by now, Will thought.

“Well,” Will leaned against the machine, “the professor liked mine,” Jesse made a _duh_ face; Will ignored him, “and she’s friends with the _Gazette_ editor.” He shrugged, as if it was no big deal.

“Will.” Jesse straightened, his ever-present smile gone. “This isn’t a little thing. You got noticed by the _local newspaper_ in your _first year of college_. That’s _huge_ for a journalism major.”

His smile was back and he tossed the bottled coffee he fetched from the vending machine at his best friend. Will caught it, surprised. It was his favorite. “We are celebrating. My place. Tonight. I’ll let everyone know.” Jesse turned and walked back to the group he had left and Will followed a moment later.

Before he reached the circle of friends, they erupted into cheers and applause.

Will really was grateful to have a best friend like him.

 

* * *

 

Alfred Pennyworth got up at 6 AM, on the dot, day in, day out.

He went about his morning routine. He showered, shaved, and dressed. He started the coffee pot and then opened the front door, felt the morning cold kiss his cheeks, and made his way down the long driveway to retrieve the newspaper.

There was always a small break between starting breakfast and waking Dick for school and Bruce for work that Alfred would use to read the newspaper. If there was nothing interesting in the paper, he would reorganize the fridge. If the fridge was organized, he would clean the top cabinets. Fortunately, something usually caught his eye in the paper.

Today was no different.

 

* * *

 

Alfred smiled and got up, making sure to put the _Gotham Gazette_ next to Bruce’s place at the dining table on his way up the stairs.

After breakfast was served and two bleary-eyed boys sat at the table, Alfred mentioned an article he found… _amusing_ in the paper that morning.

Bruce slid the paper closer to him, sipping at his coffee. He looked over the news about “Beware the Bat” and “The Masked Vigilante: Can We Trust Him?”

On the side, a small article listed “A Silent Knight.” Something about it caught his attention and Bruce unfolded the paper. Before flipping the few pages needed to find the short article, Bruce thumbed the “Entertainment” section and handed Dick the daily comics without a word. Dick bounced in his seat, kicking his legs back and forth since they couldn’t reach the floor just yet, and perused the black and white strips.

Bruce thought, with a warmth in his chest, how easily they had fallen into a sort of routine. How easy it was to be Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson.

He wondered, this time with a frown, if it would be just as easy to be Batman and Robin.

Bruce rolled his shoulders and let the thought roll away with them. “Another worry for another day,” came Martha’s voice.

Coffee in one hand, he settled back against the chair and read.

 

* * *

 

A Silent Knight.

By William C. Vale

 

What is a hero?

Lately, it seems to be defined as those who don a cap and a mask, those who wear emblems on their chest, those who let their good deeds go uncredited.

People keep debating: Is a firefighter still a hero? Or a cop? How about a local billionaire philanthropist?

The answer, clearly, is yes, yes, and most definitely _yes_.

Our local billionaire philanthropist. Some say he is our local playboy. Others, the local rich kid.

To me? The local hero.

If he had a shred of an ego, if he ever sought credit for his contributions to this city, half of the buildings would bear his name. Here, don’t worry, I came up with a few: Wayne Library of Resources, Wayne-Fox Children’s Hospital of Gotham, Wayne Foundation Foster Home for Children.

Those last two actually saved my life, sans the Wayne name, of course; that’s just what I call them in my head.

_So, what?_ You’re probably thinking. This kid is a Bruce Wayne fanboy, cool, whatever. Next.

But think about this. How do you know Bruce Wayne? I’m going to venture a guess: from the tabloids.

But have you considered why they talk about him? Let me help you out: it’s because they _can_. He won’t put a bullet in their brains for it.

We skirt around the issues that plague our city. Batman may take on these parasites directly, with his fists, shrouded in darkness and anonymity, but before a man donned a costume and took to the streets, there was someone silently protecting his fellow citizens. No, not with his fists, but with his resources, connections, and privileges.

Someone who lets the tabloids talk about him. Someone who lets his kindness go unrewarded. Someone who lets his good deeds go uncredited.

So, you can all have your Dark Knight. We need him more than we dare say.

But I will keep my Silent Knight. And thank him for recognizing his capability to be who he is.

A playboy, some may wonder? Maybe.

A corrupt man, some may ask? No.

Never.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks after the article was published, Will went down to check his mail.

He hardly went since most people use email nowadays, but he needed to grab the textbook he had ordered.

_Damn expensive things_.

It should really be illegal for professors to make you buy the books they themselves wrote. You can just _see_ the sinister gleam in their eyes as their lecture halls fill up and they proclaim the textbook a requirement, knowing full well that they will be making _at least_ $200 off every student since it’s “a new edition and cannot be replaced by any other book.”

_Fuck you guys._

Will jammed his key into the mail slot with a little more force than necessary, and turned to unlock it. In it, lay a set of keys and an envelope.

The keys were for opening the bigger mail containers to fetch large shipments and was meant for his textbook. The envelope, Will squinted at it, was from Wayne Enterprises.

He read his name on the envelope again just to be sure as he got his textbook out, his previous anger gone and replaced with curiosity.

“Wayne…” he muttered, taking the stairs back up to his apartment. It had been decades since the hospital and years since the foster home, so what could it be?

As soon as his door to his apartment closed behind him, he tossed his textbook onto the kitchen counter and tore the envelope open. There were two papers folded inside: one on a tanned, thick material and the second on what looked like plain, white printer paper.

He read the first.

“Dear Mr. William Vale:

I am delighted to inform you that have been awarded a full Wayne Foundation Scholarship to the Gotham University. This will include TUITION and all EXPENSES.

Each year the Wayne Foundation selects a single student—”

Will put down the paper. His hands were starting to shake.

He took a deep, rattling breath and pulled out the second half of the letter. A few short sentences took up the page with calligraphy-like handwriting.

“William,

I hear you’re going to be a great journalist one day. I hope this helps in some way.

Bruce Wayne”

Before he even realized it, he was calling Jesse and bawling incoherently about a man he hardly knows but will never forget.


	4. His Only Detriment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone who remembers a boy who read too much, a boy who loved to learn, a boy who was named Jason Todd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I wrote something so sad for his birthday.

He didn’t have many friends.

Or, really, any friends.

He gave off a “vibe” is what the students said.

What a bunch of fucking cowards.

_Be his friend_ , she willed someone, anyone.

_Be a little brave._

 

* * *

* * *

 

He wasn’t just smart, he was intelligent. He scored high on nearly every test. God, and the wordplay in his essays? That kid was _clever_.

You could tell he wasn’t naturally gifted; he worked at it, reveled in it. When he got his scores back, there was a split second where the biggest smile would light up his eyes and.

And.

She cleared her throat.

Looked up at the ceiling.

Dug her nails into her palm.

_Breathe._

_Don’t look at that empty desk._

_Don’t think about it._

_Don’t think._

_Don’t think._

_Don’t—_

 

* * *

 

And he would flip to the back where her comments were and read them. And reread them. And how could his smile get even bigger? And he’d try to fight it down, swallow his obvious joy. For a moment. Then he would give up and he would smile for the rest of class. She imagined him running home, to his butler and his manor and his adoptive father. _Look what I got!_ He would say.

_Aren’t you proud?_

 

* * *

 

Damn it.

 

* * *

* * *

 

She had finished her lunch a little earlier that day and stopped by the library to look through a few books for her class. It was nearly empty so she spotted him right away sitting at one of the tables, his head using his backpack as a pillow as he flipped a page in _Fahrenheit 451_.

She called out to him, “Come here for a second. I could use your help with something.”

He put down his book and came over to where she stood beside the shelves. “What’s up, Ms. G?”

“Well,” she started gravely, “it seems like everyone’s burnt out from all the classics we’ve been reading, so I was thinking of assigning you guys something a bit easier for winter break.” She gestured at the books next to them, “Got any suggestions?”

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked at the shelves. They were near the librarian’s desk, where the authors’ names were sorted from Q to Z and, almost immediately, he leaned down and pulled forward a thick book.

“This one.” He handed it to her, proud of his pick.

She looked down at the cover of Death holding hands with a little girl, the two dancing above the title. She hummed approvingly, “Good choice, but why this one?”

He became shy suddenly, fidgeting with his hands a bit. She could tell he knew _why_ but he wasn’t sure if he should say it. He was like that in class sometimes, when he knew the answer and no one else did.

But Jason Todd had never been a coward and he finally let a small smile onto his face as he quoted: “‘ _When death captures me… he will feel my fist on his face._ ’ I love that.”

After a moment of silence, she _thunked_ the book on his head lightly and turned, saying, “This one it is, then.”

 

* * *

 

( _I want to ask you: Did he? Did the old bastard cry when he took a boy with so much life? I imagine you knocking his teeth out. And, when he comes for me, I will do the same. For you._ )

 

* * *

* * *

 

His older brother had been in her class as well.

 

She wondered if he went to the funeral.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Two years later, she decided not to go the graduation ceremony. Her students begged her to see them off, but she gave them her signature ‘ _grovel all you want, but I am_ not _changing your grade’_ look and they sulked away. She didn’t tell them she was retiring. She was tired of saying goodbye to the best parts of her life.

She went to visit her favorite student instead.

 

* * *

 

She propped the graduation cap against his headstone.

_Tassels to the left._

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Ms. G?”

She looked up from her desk to find him standing in her doorway, fidgeting with a paper in his hand. “Yes? Jason, right?” She beckoned him to come in.

“Yeah. Um.” He scuffed the back of his shoes against the tile. A beat. Then, “I don’t understand what this means?” He pushed forward the paper, it was the essay the class had to write on _Beowulf_ , and pointed at one of the margins where she had scribbled in a note.

In all honesty, it was less of a note and more of a scribble.

She laughed at her own bad handwriting and that seemed to loosen the tension Jason felt. He probably was nervous for calling out his English teacher for having such an unintelligible scrawl.

“It says that I liked the metaphor you used, but you could’ve cut down the quote—it makes the sentence too wordy,” she handed him back his essay.

“Oh.” He looked at the paper and seemed to be doing what most students do after they ask her about what she wrote on one of their assignments: stare at the margin and try to decipher her handwriting for themselves. But then Jason repeated the portion of his essay in question back to her and asked if it was better and she couldn’t stop the swell of pride she felt.

This was why she became a teacher, for students like him.

“Yeah. Yeah, much better.”

Ah.

And there it was.

That smile. Crinkly eyes and all.

“Thanks, Ms. G!” He turned and bounded toward the door. “See you tomorrow!” And he disappeared around the corner.

She was still smiling long after he had gone.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Still kneeling by his grave, she reached into her purse and pulled out a book. A book with Death dancing on the cover.

The words came unbidden to her mind:

“ _He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this on my tumblr and I chickened out. Oh, well, here it is.
> 
> Working on the next chapter that was a request on one of the previous chapters! I'm having a lot of fun writing it so hopefully I'll get it up soon.
> 
> edit: so the next chapter (which is the "secretary" prompt since I don't have a title for it yet) is going to be longer than the other chapters so that's why I'm taking forever with it! Sorry and thank you for your patience!


	5. Sweet Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some say Superman is God, some say Batman is the Devil. Either way, it seems like the Robins also become a bit ethereal and other-worldly to the broken, the young, and the dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for this double whammy of death and dying.

She wouldn’t say Death was a “friend” exactly.

He was more of a polite acquaintance, one that knocked before he entered her life. A knock in the form of a pale face and rapid breathing.

They were familiar with each other. She’d open the door for him. Not welcoming, really, but you can’t exactly slam the door in his face. He was the landlord after all; you knew you’d have to face him eventually. She faced him more than most, to be honest.

But, still, he was polite. At least to her.

She recognized his comings and goings. She saw him walking toward her father months before he took his final breath. She saw him in the eyes of some of the women on the street, as they stood shivering in their heels. She saw him in the way her stomach stopped growling and her limbs began to feel hollow.

She wondered how it would be before he finally knocked on her door and asked for her. Would it be a light rapping or a soft thud? Would he beat out a tune? Maybe he’d even whistle for her.

There were acquaintances, after all.

She mulled over these thoughts as she walked. Nowhere in particular. She needed to move or else Death would be coming to her as the chill in her bones and the numbing of her toes. If she could have a say in it, she’d rather not greet him with chattering teeth and frozen lungs, thank you very much.

It was snowing in Gotham. By the time the white flakes reached the ground, they were dirtied into a soot-stained slush. It was the opposite of pretty. A hatred settled in her gut as she unsuccessfully tried to kick the melting sludge out of the holes in her boot.

It really was a miserable place.

 _A miserable place filled with miserable people._ And, _hah_ ,  she thought, _was I one of ’em._

_Oh. I’m already speaking in past tense._

_Hah. How sad._

Before the hatred in her gut could turn on its host, the sounds of a struggle pulled at her attention.

A woman in an alley. A man over her. Not an unusual scene, she knew.

But the hatred pounced on the man as if he was a last meal, and as it devoured him, her gut burned.

She grabbed a broken half of a brick and, before she realized, she was smashing it against his head.

He turned to look at his attacker, furious. The woman he was with used his distraction to slip from his grasp and run toward the mouth of the alley.

He watched her go and cursed loudly. In one swift motion, he grabbed his attacker by the back of her shirt collar and plunged a knife into her ribs.

In her mind, she screamed.

In reality, she stared.

 _A knife_. _A knife!_

She slumped against the wall, but her eyes never left the hilt; its blade buried in her chest.

 _But don’t worry_ , came a distant and cruel voice, _out of sight, out of mind. Ha. Ha._

Oh, there’s blood coming out of her mouth, _what a funny feeling_.

The man watched for a moment, satisfied, then turned and ran the same direction as the woman did, his jacket bouncing up and down around his shoulders.

Not even a second after he disappeared around the corner, there were two thuds and grunts sounding next to her. She shifted her neck to watch as a man with a red helmet and a man with a blue bird on his chest ran toward her from the end of the alley.

“Shit,” said Helmet and he leaped over her splayed out legs. She almost apologized: _Sorry for dying in your way. Please excuse me._

Nightwing—and she knew it was Nightwing because she usually stuck close to Blüdhaven—called out to Helmet to stop, to wait, to “not go after him alone.” There was some mistrust there, an unspoken argument and agreement passing between them in a matter of seconds.

She wondered if they even noticed her. A kid that was far too young bleeding out in an alley. Not an unusual scene, she knew.

But then Nightwing was kneeling next to her and she was worrying that he was going to get blood on his clothes. His hand covered hers and how was he so warm? It made her think of a day filled with hot chocolate and blankets and laughter and hugs, even though she knew she never experienced such a day in all her life. Maybe she would have. Maybe he showed her a glimpse of what would have been her future.

She knew it was a lie. She just didn’t want to think about the pain. She didn’t want to think about how she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to think about the noises she was making, the whimpering and the moaning and the crying. Was this it? Was he knocking now?

Nightwing was saying something to her. She couldn’t understand the words and she could understand them at the same time. It was so strange. He knew she was dying. He knew he couldn’t save her. He wasn’t apologizing. He was… he was what?

 _Was this what they called “sweet nothings”?_ _Because it sounds like nothing, but it sounds so sweet. It sounds like a lie, but I want to believe. I want to believe. You will protect me._

His voice sounded like everything warm and kind. The sun peeking behind a cloud on a cold day. The feeling after skipping stones on the river. The smell of fresh laundry. The _swish_ of jump rope. The splash after stepping in a puddle. The melting part of an ice cream. The press of a hand against your own, palm to palm, finger interlaced.

In a moment, she loved him. She was dying and she loved him. It took the breath out of her. Maybe that had more to do with the dying than the loving and she knew the loving had more to do with the dying than she wanted to admit.

After all, she was just a kid that was far too young bleeding out in an alley.

She wanted to love him for the lie. The lie as her life was flashing before her and it was, _oh, so quick, was that all?_ and it left her feeling empty and full and she poured every moment that should have been hers into the man witnessing the sputtering and the sobbing. She wanted to love the life that could have been hers, but it wasn’t hers and it would never be hers, but that was too painful, too painful to think about, so she loved him instead.

She loved him instead of all the cartwheels she could have landed, all the jokes she could have told, all the hearts she could have broken.

She loved him, even after she couldn’t feel his hand on hers anymore, even after his face had melted into a blurry darkness, even after his words faded to a whisper in the corner of her mind.

She was dying and if he was Death, then she didn’t mind answering that door. Was that him knocking now, or was it just the sweet cadence of his voice?

_I’m coming, I’m coming._

_Oh, won’t you come in?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized most of my chapters get written between 1 AM and 5 AM so they end up being small little blurbs like this. This is also me trying to explain that I'm having a hard time with the secretary prompt because it's running longer than I thought and is no longer a small little blurb. but i'll get to it and finish it before school starts.
> 
> i have a lot of applications/paperwork to complete before school starts in like 3 weeks so i'm going to try and finish the next chapter within the next week or so (fingers crossed!). this was just a thing that got stuck in my head and i decided i kept yall without an update for too long so i hope yall enjoyed ittttt


	6. Secretary Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perspective of Bruce Wayne from a long-term employee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt in the comments section from [MoonlitMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitMelody/)

_January 22_

_8:05 PM_

 

Hi.

I guess I should introduce myself since we’ll be talking quite often now.

My name is Matthew Donovan.

And you are?

A Word document. Or, are you the incessantly blinking cursor? The one that goes:

|

 

|

 

|

 

Well, anyway, you get the idea. I hope.

I guess I should explain a bit for no other reason than to explain it to myself and a cursor on a document no one will read. But just so we’re clear: my therapist told me to do this. Thirty minutes. Every night. “Almost no stopping when typing.” Those were her exact words, hence the quotes.

She wanted an hour of this and I was not having it. She cut it down by half. By half! Am I good negotiator or what? Imagine me blowing on my nails and polishing them on my shirt smugly because that is exactly what I am doing.

Obviously, this is going to be a lot of gibberish so feel free to ignore me. But we’ll be meeting quite often now. Every night. For who knows how long. We should really get to know each other.

(winky face)

Oh, God, I am too old for that. I feel like Mr. Wayne when he’s trying to annoy his sons by being “hip.” But I’m not _that_ old. Still young. You know what? I’m going to use all the winky faces I want and no one is going to stop me! Power to the people!

…

Anyway.

I mentioned Mr. Wayne so I might as well explain what I do for a living. (I’m going to politely assume that was your follow-up question to me introducing myself. And introducing you. Let’s not think too much about this.)

I am Mr. Bruce Wayne’s liaison between him and the outside world. Actually, not really, because that would be the job of an assistant and I thankfully am only his secretary. So, close enough.

I actually looked up the definition of “secretary” on the ol’ Google and guess what? The first five ( _five_ , I tell you!) synonyms contain or are “assistant”: _synonyms: assistant, executive assistant, administrative assistant, personal assistant, clerical assistant._

Wow. I am offended. Why am I so offended? Maybe it’s because I imagine an assistant’s job to be running around behind the person they’re assisting and being at their elbow 24/7.

It’s not like that with Mr. Wayne. I usually spend my days behind a desk. Answering calls. Filling out paperwork. Booking appointments. Even when he goes overseas, I stay at Wayne Enterprises. “Holding down the fort,” he says. And I don’t go to galas unless it’s a WE event, not even if they are Bruce Wayne’s own personal galas.

And I don’t mind. This is actually perfect for me. Less interactions with people. Less stress. There’s still stress, of course. Believe me, there’s stress. But it’s nice. Quiet. Alone. Doing my thing. A rhythm to it.

Huh. I can kind of see why Dr. Hughes wants me to do this.

Anyway, I love it. It’s a great job and Mr. Wayne (“Bruce,” he insists. But I only ever call him by his name when I’m talking to him. Otherwise, he’s “Mr. Wayne.” Honestly, he can be so difficult.) is a good person. “A good human being,” is how my mother would have phrased it. But, yes. He is. And I’m glad to work for him.

Aaaand looks like our thirty minutes are almost up. (FYI: I am totally going to count the five minutes I took googling my job position and being overly dramatic about it. Nothing you can do about it. Sorry, bucko, better luck next time!)

It’s been a great chat and I do have to hit the hay so goodnight! Farewell! _Au revoir!_ Til we meet again.

 

* * *

 

_January 23_

_7:46 PM_

 

Hellooo!

I was going to start this off with a whole spiel about how it was “funny seeing you here again” and then I realized how that’s not even a good joke and. Yeah. Here we are.

So. Let’s just pick up where we left off last time, which I’m assuming had something to do with my job since that takes up about 98% of my life. (The other 2% is the eating, showering, and other basic human necessities.)

And I’m _assuming_ that’s what I talked about because, even though I am allowed to reread what I wrote, I know I won’t be able to help editing what I wrote, which I am not allowed to do. So. Assuming it is.

I guess I am being a bit short with you today. I apologize. I am exhausted, but that doesn’t mean I should take it out on you. Please be understanding and, once again, I do apologize for this inconvenience.

Oh, so there it is. Rearing its ugly head. You may not know this, but one of the reasons I have a therapist is because I tend to zone out in social situations and just go into Secretary Mode. Even at bars and stuff. So let’s try not to do that and I have to try to be more present in the moment.

Dr. Hughes would be so proud of me. I’m wiping away tears as we speak.

Alright, work! My job! Today! What did I do today? How was my day? How was work?

All essentially the same question but let’s answer them individually!

(I almost made a bullet point presentation out of this, but I shouldn’t do that. That’s what a secretary would do. But I am a secretary. And it’s such a neat way to organize! Ugh! What do I do, Dr. Hughes?)

Today, I woke up like usual. Had leftover Chinese food for breakfast. Watered my plants. (My succulents are so cute! Elio has gotten so big and even grew a little flower! Oh, I’m so proud.) I just realized I am a lonely plant person, instead of a lonely cat person…

Anyway.

Watered my plants and then, I got ready for work. Shaving. Aftershave. Lotion. Then, clothes: black slacks, grey button up shirt, black striped tie, black suit jacket. Socks. Shoes. Grab my keys. Head to my car. Get stuck in traffic.

So, same old, same old.

But I felt like shit. Complete and utter shit. I had the most massive headache and you know what? It wasn’t even a headache, it was definitely in Migraine Territory. So, I had a massive migraine and my head was just pounding, right above my left eye. But I go to work, because a migraine has never stopped me before and I’m also kind of a stubborn idiot. Oh, well.

At work, doing what I do. Trying to focus on anything other than my throbbing head and knowing without a doubt that it wasn’t going to just go away. Until. Someone, call it God, call it the universe, call it karma, I don’t care, _someone_ sent an angel to my desk today.

An angel in the form of Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. I must have been massaging my head or something because, when he came up to my desk to ask if Mr. Wayne was busy, he also asked if I was feeling okay. And honestly? He’s such a perceptive young man and I have no problem fighting everyone who doubts his skills and capabilities in running the R&D department. He may be 17 years old, but he is one of the hardest workers I know and WE is lucky to have him on as a member of our staff.

Okay, I’m probably not done gushing about Tim, but let me get back to the story. So he asks if I’m alright and I kind of reluctantly admit I have a headache (remember: I’m a stubborn idiot and rarely admit weakness so this is a Big Deal). And Tim goes, “Oh! I get migraines and headaches all the time, there’s this medicine that helps me a lot. Do you want to try it?” And, at this point, he could have said that he had a magic carpet and it would cure my headache and I wouldn’t even think twice about saying _yes, please_.

Tim reaches into his wallet—he must _really_ get migraines if he keeps the pills on him at all times—and pulls out this plastic baggy with the tablets in them. He asks to make sure I didn’t take any other medicine today and that I don’t have any allergies and he sounds just like a doctor that it made me smile for the first time all day. Truly, an absolute angel.

Within 15 minutes, I shit you not, my migraine is gone. I almost _cried_ from relief, it was amazing. You know what? I’m going to buy Timothy a Starbucks gift card and ask for the name of the pills because that was _amazing_.

But I had gone all day with that parasitic and pulsing headache that it drained most of my energy out. So, here I am, exhausted and completely ready for bed and also purposefully typing this out slowly so I can drag my thirty minutes out.

We still have some time and I would inquire about your day, but I don’t think you’d respond soon enough. Maybe one day, when robots and computers take over the world. Who knows.

I hope Dr. Hughes can forgive me and, more importantly, you can forgive me (or am I supposed to say, I can forgive myself? Since I am doing this for myself and “you” technically is me? ...I am too tired to think about this, whatever) but I must cut our time together short and say goodnight because I, frankly, am burnt out.

 _Au revoir_. Til ’morrow comes.

 

* * *

 

_January 24_

_9:12 PM_

Today was a good day. Nothing was much different; I was just in a good mood.

Hm, hm, hm, things to talk about. Let’s seeeee. I am just carding through any events that could possibly be interesting: Morning traffic. Paperwork. Phone call. Paperwork. Meeting. Conference call. Lunch. Lunch! Here we go.

Usually, throughout the day, I just hand Mr. Wayne paperwork in his office. When he’s on his lunch break, however, I leave it on his desk. Not terribly exciting, I know. But it’s secretly one of my most favorite things to do—go into his office when he’s not there.

It’s not for any weird reason, I promise you. It’s just, when he is there, it’s strictly business. Yeah, we’ll chat about this or that, but that’s not what I mean. His office is filled with personal things but in the subtlest of places; walking in, you don’t even notice it.

So when he’s gone, I can actually step back and admire the pictures on his desk—the one of Miss Stephanie Brown preparing to throw a snowball at an unsuspecting Damian Wayne, who looks entirely too cross and too cute in his ski gear, while Tim records the whole thing—Cassandra and Damian making a sand castle at the beach, except Cassandra is glaring at someone over Damian’s head and Damian is so focused on perfecting his creation that he doesn’t even notice the camera—Stephanie, Tim, and a blurry figure (a bit bigger than Dick, so probably Bruce?) in a jumpy house—Dick’s first birthday at the manor—Alfred and a young Jason in deep conversation over cookies and milk, both wearing warm sweaters and smiles, the picture taken from afar, peeking from the doorway—Barbara, a game controller in hand, leaning over and draping a blanket on a sleeping Tim, while Dick reaches for Tim’s own abandoned controller—a silly version of a family picture I know hangs in the manor, all somber smiles and stiff stares, while this one is filled with rolling eyes and tongues sticking out, somebody getting punched and somebody getting a noogie, while Bruce looks at the camera with a blank expression that reminds me too much of an episode from The Office. In the center, a picture of Thomas and Martha Wayne, a little Bruce smiling at the camera, and an Alfred with no grey hairs looking on.

There’s Damian’s watercolor painting that hangs above the door that you can’t see when you walk in, but there’s a perfect view of it from Mr. Wayne’s desk. On another wall, there’s a framed display of dancing figures; Cassandra’s choice. There’s a _#1 Grumpypants_ handmade bookmark that sits unused on his shelf that I’m sure Jason gave him as a joke. There’s a paperweight of the Bat-symbol and I don’t know who got that for him, since it’s pretty customary for all Gothamites to have some sort of Batman merchandise, but something tells me it was Mr. Clark Kent from Metropolis. There’s even a tea set that Alfred gave him that he uses when he hosts important guests for meetings.

It’s like little cracks of sentimentality and it’s so clear, at least to me, how much he loves his family.

I’ve worked with him for over fifteen years now and let me tell you, Mr. Bruce Wayne does not show emotions easily. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.

Wow. It really has been fifteen years. I still remember when Mr. Wayne used to be _such_ a playboy. He would have me send flowers to this girl or that model every weekend, I swear. I used to tease him about it and he would give me a shy laugh. I used to think he was a bit of an airhead too.

Boy, was I wrong. Most of the time, the flowers he sent were accompanied by “Sorry” cards and apologizing messages. It didn’t take very long to figure out that people were throwing themselves at him because he was rich and young. It didn’t help him either that he was handsome. And because he is too much of a gentleman, he sent flowers for rejecting people who only sought him for his wallet.

And people, like me, made the mistake of thinking he was naïve. You can’t take advantage of him. He is so perceptive and detail-oriented, it’s insane. (I just realized how alike Tim and Mr. Wayne are.)

I think what changed my mind about him was a series of events. First, he took down a corrupt corporation with such calculating precision, I did a double take because, and I clearly remember thinking, _is this_ actually _Mr. Wayne?_ Second, I noticed that his pay was significantly less than what a CEO should be earning because, and this was his words since I thought it was a mistake, “that money can go back toward the company” AKA he uses it for employee benefits, to make the lives of everyone at WE better. And thirdly, one fateful day, a robbery and hostage situation by the Penguin took place and Mr. Wayne singlehandedly diffused the situation without anyone getting hurt.

After that, I could not look at him and think that he was just some spoiled, rich kid who didn’t know left from right. He is an empathetic and kind man, who, despite horrific trauma, has become someone who has so many people to love. Even if he doesn’t always express it normally.

He is still, honestly, such an emotionally constipated man, but I, and I’m sure most of WE employees agree, would follow him to the ends of the Earth. There is no one else I’d rather work for.

Well. Despite all this heart-to-heart about my boss, I really did have a good day. It was probably just because I was so adamant about having a good day that my attitude made it better. Would not let anything get me down. But then again, some days are easier than others.

Let us hope for more good days and more restful nights.

On that note, I shall say goodnight.

Goodbye for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the blurry figure in the jumpy house was totally Jason, but Bruce can't exactly have pictures of his supposedly dead son hanging out in his office.
> 
> life is gonna get pretty busy for me soon and i don't have any prompts or ideas i want to write currently so i guess this is going on hiatus? even though, it's always been an "i'll update when i want" type of thing. i'll pick it up again sometime in the future.
> 
> also! i want to give a warm thank you to [JKlondy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKlondy) for the kind comments you have left on this work. it truly means more than i can say. thank you.
> 
> edit: ok i know i said "hiatus" but now i cant stop thinking about a guy in a coffee shop who knows Tim's and Cass's and Steph's orders by heart and i cant stop thinking about a girl at a gala distracting a baby Robin while their parents talk about the stock market and i know without a doubt i have so many other things to do and i dont have time but i WANT TO WRITE IT


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